


Adam Ate the Apple

by elysiumwaits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Criminal Stiles Stilinski, Dirty Cop Derek Hale, Gun Kink, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23077504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: In a dim speakeasy in Chicago, Derek indulges in his favorite vice.It’s not alcohol.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 31
Kudos: 291





	Adam Ate the Apple

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I started this before 2020 as like a 20s AU, but now it’s March. This is just atmospheric self-indulgence that I wanted to play with, with some heavy noir vibes. Tensions between Scott and Stiles are a little strained in this fic, which apparently is taking place in the middle of a story I haven't actually written. I would daresay it's not completely Scott- or Allison-friendly, which is just a reflection on the story I'm telling and not necessarily on how I treat the characters in my other writing.
> 
> This was supposed to be 1500 words at most! I've got to learn how to stop estimating. I just don't know when to stop.
> 
> Title is from a quote by Vicente Fox I found on Google. "Prohibition didn't work in the Garden of Eden. Adam ate the apple."

Lydia Martin is the kind of dame you don’t screw over, unless you want the last thing you see to be bright eyes and red hair. Sometimes she's a vision you see when you bleed out from a lead bullet to the gut. Sometimes she's the beautiful siren that leads you to a watery death in the form of a long walk off a short pier in a pair of concrete shoes. If you’re a friend or she owes you something, she might feel forgiving. In that case, being on her good side will get you a quick death in the form of a clean shot to the head, after a nice dinner and good drinks. The kind you never see coming, so you never feel the fear. Her little kindness. A mercy, the only way that Lydia Martin knows how to give it.

Derek breaks the mold, in this case. Derek didn't die.

Depending on who you ask, he got lucky. If you ask Miss Martin, he's more useful alive than he is as a corpse at the bottom of the Chicago River. If you ask Stiles, Derek is wavering somewhere between the law and a speakeasy where the smoke is a little too thick to look back and see all of his mistakes giving him a come-hither glance. Stiles likes words,though. If you ask Derek, he'll tell you this - once upon a time, Derek made a deal with a redheaded devil in a fox-fur trimmed coat. This is his Fifth Circle of Hell.

Lucky, unlucky, jury's out. What Derek _got_ was a deal, far more than anyone else in his position ever got. Derek has his life, free booze at the Banshee Speakeasy, and a cozy spot on Lydia Martin’s payroll. All he has to do in return is grease a few palms here and there, give a few early warnings about raids, fire some half-assed shots that never hit. It’s a lot more than can be said for most people who end up on Miss Martin’s bad side, so yeah. Maybe he’s lucky. For a given definition of the word.

But Derek knows what saved him, and it wasn’t Miss Martin’s mercy. He's not _that_ useful. 

The Banshee is lively, for being a hidden bar with no windows, tucked behind a false door in a cabinet. Derek leaves his badge, his hat, and his coat at the door like he always does. Makes him feel a little naked, but these days the badge is heavier than the gun in the holster under his arm. They don't take his gun anymore. He's pathetically grateful for that. It's a security blanket more than anything, certainly wouldn't do him a lot of good if Miss Martin decides that he's no longer useful. Besides, if they're going to kill him, they won't do it at The Banshee. Bad for business.

By lively, Derek really means that it's a little crowded, albeit subdued. It's probably the number that Erica's singing - soft, like she gets late in the evenings. It's a love song instead of a dance number, and Boyd's on the piano behind her. Someone's playing a horn quietly nearby. It's the kind of number that has tipsy couples swaying on the dance floor, quiet whispers and promises being made.

Erica looks sweet in her white dress and black gloves, feather boa around her shoulders. She's blonde hair and big brown eyes, a wicked smile that she shows the world, curves for days. But Derek's seen her in handcuffs, blood staining the white of a dress not too unlike the one she's wearing. The man she stabbed survived, though, so here she is, with a shining engagement ring on her finger and the protection of Lydia Martin behind her. Boyd's a lucky man, Derek thinks sometimes.

"A drink tonight, Hale?" the bartender asks, leaning across the bar and smiling all friendly like Derek didn't shoot him in the shoulder last year. Lahey's another one that looks like he couldn't step on a roach, curls and dimples and big blue eyes. Derek's got a graze on his thigh, though, scar tissue that still pulls sometimes to remind him of lessons learned about wolves in sheep's clothing. According to Lahey, that little graze makes them even.

"Not tonight," Derek replies. Sometimes he drinks, he'll admit it. Fuck, _everyone_ he knows drinks, just in the privacy of their own homes. World's full of hypocrites. "He in the back room?"

Lahey looks at him for a second before he's grabbing a glass and a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. "Trust me, Hale," he says. "You want a drink." He pours the drink, caps the bottle, and turns away. "He's in the back. Don't bother knocking."

Over the year and a half of his employment under Miss Martin, Derek's learned that you don't argue with Isaac Lahey about some things, and if the man hands you a drink and says you need it, he's probably right. So he takes the glass and makes his way through the slow-moving crowd, past the cigarette smoke and the cloying smell of marijuana somewhere in the corner. There's a door in the back, a plaque on the front that says "Office."

Derek doesn't bother knocking. It's not really an office in any true sense of the word, holding only one desk that isn't used and no file cabinets. There are a couple of armchairs and a couch, a table in the middle, a suitcase in the corner that Derek knows is full of neat stacks of money. This is where the deals happen, after all, the shady bullshit that really funds The Banshee and Miss Martin's accounts.

There are three men and a woman in the room, and they all look up when the door opens before going back to their conversation. Scott McCall gives him a nod and the Argent girl in his lap glances up at him, but that's all the acknowledgement that Derek receives until he sits down in one of the chairs and Peter passes him a cigarette without looking. Scott holds out the light.

"It's not out of the realm of possibility," Peter says, sprawling out with his arm over the back of the couch. The picture of relaxation, with his tie off, a couple of buttons undone, and his sleeves rolled up just artfully enough to appear accidental to anyone who doesn't know him. "We have to consider the options."

"I think the options here are pretty fuckin' clear." Stiles is leaning against the desk, hands in his pockets. He hasn't looked at Derek once since he came in, eyes skipping over him to Allison Argent instead. "Sorry, Ally. Pardon the language." He doesn't sound all that sorry. He sounds like it's one of those societal niceties that he only acknowledges the existence of sometimes. 

Allison Argent, though, is a lady. Or as close to a lady as an Argent girl will ever be, in Derek's opinion. She gives Stiles a look, and McCall's arm tightens around her waist as she takes a drink from the glass in her hand. She's not thrilled to be here, despite the sidecar that's already half empty. Derek can see it in the tight pinch of her lips and the grip she has on the stem of her glass.

"We knew it would come to this, eventually," Peter goes on. Derek's got no idea what he just walked in on, but it's an interesting meeting, that's for sure. Not often you see his uncle in the same room as an Argent, and they both leave alive. "I'm just saying that we don't have to do something rash. A deal might be on the table."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, lips quirking up like he's amused. "A deal, Peter? Really? I never thought I'd be listening to you try to convince me _not_ to wipe out the whole Argent line." He glances back at Allison, face twisting into something that could be a grimace if he could just wipe the smirk off of his face. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Stiles," Scott says, tone warning, and Derek fights the urge to snort derisively, hides his face in the glass of damn good whiskey that Lahey poured him. Scott McCall thinks he's more important than he is sometimes, even with Allison Argent on his lap. He's lucky Stiles is so damn sentimental. Derek can relate.

"You don't have to be here," Stiles replies, and that fake little grimace melts away into a dangerous, devil-may-care smile. "You _asked_ to be here for this. I remember telling you that I didn't think you'd want to."

"I didn't think we'd be discussing whether or not we're killing Ally's entire family," Scott snaps. Allison drains her glass in one smooth motion, face gone sour and red like she's thinking about smashing it into the wall.

Peter shifts on the couch, gesturing lazily with the hand draped over the back of it. "I mean, I am in the middle of trying to save _one_ Argent."

"Yeah, the one you're fu-" Scott starts.

"Christ, will you _stop?_ " Allison snaps, just as Stiles cuts him off.

"Go get a drink, Scott," he says. No smile, no smirk, nothing devil-may-care anymore. All danger, now. Silence follows the statement. "Get Ally a drink. Erica's only got a couple more numbers, the two of you should go dance." 

It's an order, not a suggestion. There's a hierarchy here, a dynamic that's consistently at war with the childhood memories Scott and Stiles both have. In this moment, they're not dealing with Scott's best friend from his youth. They're dealing with Lydia Martin's left hand man. The man with the highest body count in the city, but doesn't care to keep track of the numbers. What's two more added to the bottom line? His ledger's already bleeding red.

Scott doesn't say anything. Allison slides off of Scott's lap when he stands, hand shaking on her glass as he leads her from the room with a firm hand on her elbow. Derek watches them go along with Peter. Stiles makes his way over to the chair they've just vacated, sprawls himself out over it. He reaches up and loosens the collar of his shirt with a sigh, rolls his head on his neck like it aches with tension. 

"If we're tying up ends, that one's awfully loose," Peter says after a moment. "And I'm not talking about the Argent girl."

Stiles' eyes flick up to him. "Don't I know it," he mutters, and then glances away with another sigh. He chews his lip for the moment. Derek used to think it was a tell, a giveaway that Stiles was nervous. Now he knows better - that's the look of a man with the wheels turning in his head, going over every possible scenario and bloody outcome. "See if Chris is willing to meet. We'll make him an offer."

Derek watches as Peter's face goes from his usual unaffected mask to a moment of pleasant surprise. "You will?"

"Consider it a favor," Stiles says, and Peter's face closes off once more. Stiles is good at that, drawing real emotion out. He's weaponized empathy, uses it to find weaknesses. It's part of the reason that Derek's still alive, walking around, breathing air. He just hasn't figured out if it's his weakness, Stiles' weakness, or even Miss Martin's weakness.

With a sharp nod, Peter stands. "I'll let you know. I appreciate your willingness to negotiate on the matter." It's formal, a little cold. It has to be, now. Once upon a time, Peter was Stiles, knows how he operates. He turns and dips his chin in a brief nod to Derek. "Nephew."

When he's almost to the door, Stiles calls after him, and he turns. "I don't have to tell you what happens if he refuses, do I?" Stiles asks, and if Derek didn't know any better, he almost sounds regretful. A little sad. Hell, for all Derek knows, he is. "Don't go doing anything stupid, Peter."

Peter watches him for a moment, eyes lingering. There's no one in the world who can make his mask slip like Stiles can, Derek knows, can get under his skin and needle until Peter snaps. Derek's a little threatened by it sometimes, a little jealous, but he's not sure who he's really jealous of - his uncle now isn't the uncle that Derek knew as a child, after all, but Derek is strangely possessive of Stiles. He shouldn't be. If there's a ball and chain here, if there's a collar and a leash, Derek's not the one holding the lead. 

"I know where my allegiances lie," Peter says. It's not an answer, not really. But it works well enough for Stiles, and Peter goes with a final nod, closing the door softly behind him. 

And then there were two.

Derek doesn't say anything. He's not a man of many words, and he's content in the silence, even here in this snake pit. What does it say about him that this place is becoming comfortable to him? A home away from home, where he can hang his coat and his badge up? Doesn't say anything flattering, that's for damn sure.

Just like always, Stiles is the one to break the silence. "Jesus H. Christ," he says, reaches over and plucks the glass out of Derek's hand with nimble fingers. So that's why Lahey poured the drink and said Derek needed it. Wasn't really for Derek after all. "This is a mess. It's always me cleaning up these messes."

Derek heaves out his own sigh, levers himself up and goes over to throw the lock on the door. Not that it matters, really - the people who frequent the Banshee aren't the types to give a fuck about a pair of bachelors who could kill them without blinking an eye for walking in on them kissing. It's more for his comfort than anything, a little concession that Stiles has made over the past few months now that he's sure Derek knows who he belongs to. Now that he doesn't feel like he needs to show off who, exactly, is holding the leash.

When he comes back, Stiles is looking like he's got a plan for Derek already. Derek's been noticing lately that Stiles' eyes are the same amber shade as the whiskey that Lahey pours him, and isn't that just a layer of irony that Derek never asked for? Derek skips the chair he just left, settling instead onto the couch that his uncle vacated, across from Stiles with only the little table between them. 

"Are you gonna try and shoot me again if I have to kill your uncle?" Stiles asks, voice light and flirty, like the fact that Derek has pulled a gun on him is a fond memory they should recall. 

"He's not stupid," Derek says instead of pointing out that he didn't just _try_ to shoot Stiles, he succeeded. They don't need to bring that into anything tonight - Derek is tired, and Stiles is obviously on edge already. "He knows who you are. He knows he's not _that_ useful. He knows that he wouldn't have a chance to get close enough to take you out if you thought he was a threat."

A grin curls across Stiles' face, lazy and sharp as his eyes glitter over the whiskey. "Flatterer." 

He studies Derek for a little longer before he sets the heavy glass aside, lets it clink against the table as he stands and crosses the short distance between them to settle across Derek's lap. Derek's eyes are drawn to him, head tilting back as his hands automatically come up to curl over Stiles' thighs where he's straddling Derek's, to keep him steady. Not that Stiles needs any help, of course - Stiles puts on an excellent show of talking with his hands, tripping over things, but everyone who knows him knows that to underestimate him is sign your own death warrant. Stiles projects what he wants people to see, and Derek knows firsthand just how deadly those fingers are. 

Still. He doesn't fight them as they trace along his cheekbone, drift down his jaw to his neck. He waits, instead, until Stiles is leaning in and slotting their mouths together. Only then does Derek really respond, licking his way past the seam of Stiles' lips to chase the taste of whiskey that's there. He feels Stiles slip his hands down Derek's sides, tugging at the shirt like he's trying to get it loose from Derek's pants. Derek should point out that Stiles has a perfectly good house they could go back to, with a perfectly good bedroom, but it's been well-established that Derek's no saint. Besides, this won't be the first time they've fucked in the back office of the Banshee. 

Except Derek hears a little click, and then there's the steel of his own service revolver nudging up under his chin. He stills, doesn't quite freeze because if Stiles wanted him dead, he'd already be dead. It's a comfort, strangely enough. Stiles won't hesitate, even as sentimental as he may secretly be - he wears the bullet that they pulled out of him from Derek's gun on a chain around his neck, after all. That doesn't mean a damn thing if Derek's been determined to be a threat to Stiles or, worse, Lydia Martin.

The kiss lingers, and then Stiles says, barely pulling away, breath mingling with Derek's, "You didn't answer my question."

"Do I need to?" Derek murmurs in reply, and his fingers flex on Stiles' thighs. "Is it _my_ loyalty in question here?"

The gun is warm from his own body heat, but unforgiving against his skin. Derek doesn't know what to do with the way that Stiles is looking down at him, the deceptive warmth of the look in his eye. "Thin ice, detective. Be very careful. Don't make me do something I don't need to, just because you feel feisty tonight."

Well, that's answer enough. "I would shoot myself before I tried to shoot you again," Derek says, whispers like a confession. "My uncle can lie in whatever bed he's made." The gun doesn't drop all the way, but Derek feels it lower, glancing down the skin of his neck until it's in the hollow of his collarbone. "What about you, Stiles? Where are your loyalties these days?"

"Don't get cocky." Stiles kisses him again, quick, and the gun is gone, placed onto the table behind him next to the whiskey glass. "I just had to make sure. Scott's been talking to those damn Argents more and more, your uncle's head over heels for one." Derek can read between the lines here. Stiles has a short list of people that he can trust, and Derek's quickly rising through the ranks. 

They're silent for a short while after. Stiles' arms loop around Derek's neck, drawing him into kiss after kiss. It's lazy, unhurried - they won't be fucking in the back office, after all, Derek thinks. They're acting like they've got all the time in the world, like a stray bullet couldn't take this from them with a moment's notice. 

"For what it's worth," Stiles says, when they're finally breathless enough to break away from each other again. "For what it's worth, I would hate it. If I had to. I'd do it, but I would hate it." 

Derek's hand slips under Stiles shirt, draws the chain out. He holds the bullet in his palm, warm from the heat of Stiles' chest, then pulls Stiles back in for another kiss without an answer.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ambiguous Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26434093) by [mt_lyfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mt_lyfe/pseuds/mt_lyfe)




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